


Cold and Unsure

by rillrill



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Bondage, Breathplay, Cunnilingus, F/M, Femdom, Older Man/Younger Woman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-22
Updated: 2016-06-22
Packaged: 2018-07-16 12:46:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7268806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rillrill/pseuds/rillrill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa thinks about contracts, and forms of fulfillment; how no matter how long she makes him crawl for her, he’ll never repay his debt. And he’d do it happily, grovel for the privilege, throw himself prostrate at her feet and kiss her boots and beg for an ankle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold and Unsure

In the old days, Sansa would never have gone so far as to indulge a man like this. Sansa, as a girl, had developed a taste for nobility, and part of the bargain with noble men is that they are the ones to do the indulging in exchange for being allowed to lead. But there is nothing noble about the man she now calls her husband, and there is no part of her left that desires to be led.

Since she accepted his proposal, since she wed him there at Winterfell in the shadow of the battle, affairs have been — tense. Some time passed, between their wedding night and the night she first allowed Lord Baelish to share her bed. She is not Lady Baelish, nor will she ever be; her name is Stark. He does not own her. He will never come close. But he shares her bed now, and truth be told, she enjoys it more than she thought possible. The visceral, guttural fear that once quaked through her when any man would so much as brush her hand has quieted a bit.

Not so much that he may do as he pleases. But enough.

And more so, _he_ does as _she_ pleases. And he thanks her for it. He thanks her for the opportunity. For the privilege of being allowed to kneel before her. Kneel he does, for as much time as she desires.

Sometimes she sends him away after minutes, or even close to half an hour. She thinks he would be content to kneel there on the bearskin rug before her hearth, eyes trained upward, hands clasped nearly at his back, indefinitely until she told him to stand.

She thinks that, for this — for the gift of his acquiescence, for the bargain of doing just as she says for so long before the consummation — that he ought to be rewarded.

The snow has been falling for quite some time, and Petyr has been away for days, attending to business in the Riverlands. She worries, despite herself. Jon has much to do, battle plans to formulate as King in the North, and she attends to him and the council but her mind wanders elsewhere in the idle moments. She ought to do something to keep her hands busy, she thinks, and it's with this in mind that she visits the smith and the leather worker with a singular thought in her head.

Grey thread, and her strongest needle. All that she used to embroider Jon's cloak fastenings. But this is not that. This is no tribute to her father. Sansa chews the inside of her cheek as she pushes needle through softened leather, over and over, her fingers growing sore.

She works throughout the quiet hours, picks it up each evening as she sits in her empty bed, and it's on the night after she's just laid the finishing touches — the results hidden carefully, gemlike, in a wooden box there in her bedchamber — that she goes out for a walk in the bitter wind. She walks from parapet to parapet, soles of her leather boots clicking on the stone beneath her feet, watching. Waiting. Any time now.

It's cold, though, and even in her furs she's underdressed for the icy gusts. And so she retires, fingers chilled and numb, to her chambers, swings the heavy door open with the weight of one arm:

"My lady wife."

Petyr is there, seated at the fire, book at his lap. He isn't reading it. His beard has recently been trimmed, and he looks tired — from the journey, from the work, from the stress to his mind, no matter. He looks handsome, despite the circles beneath his eyes, the grey in his hair. Sansa licks her lips, despite herself.

"Petyr."

He rises. She stands still, allows him to come to her, kiss her as she holds still as a statue in the crypt. Her eyes slide closed, despite herself. She will not yield for him, even though she wants — she has long wanted, since his departure, for her husband's touch. But not like this, not with equivalent passion. She wants to see him shake a little. She will never tire of seeing him tremble, because he’ll never stop deserving it.

"Down," she commands before she can second-guess herself, and he falters back before immediately going to his knees. Well trained, even so soon. She wonders what else she could make him do. Wonders how he might otherwise be willing to serve her, what task might be too demeaning, too minuscule for his attentions. She wonders —

"Oh, but I have missed you," Petyr breathes as he sinks down further — from his place kneeling all the way to the floor. She watches as he places his palms on the floor. Marvels, really, at how eagerly he subjugates himself for her approval. Again, she wonders: how far? How far is too far? How much is enough?

She shifts her weight, drawing her skirt away from her feet. Extends one leg a little further than the other. "A kiss for your wife," she says, vague with curiosity, and he does, presses his lips to the top of her boot, then again, and again. He looks up, then, eyes already clouding over, and she chews the inside of her cheek. Oh, now she wants it. Now there's no holding back. Yes, this is the husband she has missed. No doubt about it, she has missed this.

He’s almost too enthusiastic as he works his way up. She waits it out, waits until he draws back up to his knees, and then she waits.

“I made you something,” she says. “A gift.”

He licks his lips, and she smiles coolly. “Stay,” she adds, and takes her time sauntering to the chest where she’s kept them. Stops at the chest, then pauses, removes her boots and shimmies out of her smallclothes beneath the gown as well, letting them fall to the floor. She does not look to Petyr’s face for his reaction. She knows, already, what she would see. Instead, consumed by the task at hand, Sansa draws out the box, holds it steadily in front of her as she sits down in her high-backed armchair. “Come,” she says absentmindedly, and Petyr hastily shuffles over to her, never leaving his knees. Clumsy and eager and hers, despite all the warning signs.

Sansa waits until he is again positioned at her feet, and then she lifts the lid. The cuffs are made of rich, oiled black leather. An embroidered Stark direwolf graces either cuff, held together by a chain that jangles merrily as she lifts them from the box. She displays her handiwork with pride, waits for Petyr’s reaction.

He sucks in a breath. He raises his eyebrows.

“You _have_ kept your hands busy, I see,” he says, and she watches his adam’s apple bob in his throat as he swallows, belying his evident interest. “These are for me, I presume?”

“A token,” she says, swallowing to match him. She’s suddenly stricken with nerves, the edges of her mind going a bit fuzzy as she feels something jolt inside her. Petyr nods. Clever man. Brilliant man. _Her_ man, ever in her debt. He always will be. Her lips ache to be kissed, but he will not kiss her first. Not here. Not anymore.

She lifts the cuffs and unbuckles one, then the other. Petyr lifts his wrists without instruction, holding them out to her, sleeves of his doublet ridden up to reveal a pale expanse of skin.

“Please,” he breathes, and she takes a deep breath, and buckles the first around his right wrist. Her fingers skimming over the leather, the thread, as she tightens the cuff — then the other, and she runs her thumb over the direwolf there. He is branded. He is possessed. He is so eager to be possessed, to be a possession — she thinks there is something admirable to this. A start.

“Now,” she says quietly. “I have other work to attend. Would you be so kind as to attend to me, husband?”

(She doesn’t use his name, not here, not like this. He has not earned it yet, she thinks.)

Petyr nods, licks his lips; he knows what she means. She rucks up her gown, hikes it up above her waist, and spreads her legs wide enough to allow him passage there, feeling exposed and dangerous, but _good_. She doesn’t look down. Sansa reaches deep into her chest for the breath she draws, as his beard scratches at her inner thighs on his way to her core, and she reaches for her book and quill, dipping nib to ink and resting the leather-bound volume on the arm of the chair.

“Until I tell you to stop,” she instructs, and she lifts her legs, spreading them wider, bracing her heels in either side of the chair. He has the decency, at least, to start slowly. He does not behave as if he were running a footrace. Gentle kisses along her folds, and light, soft dabs of his tongue, before he closes his mouth over her entirely and focuses his attentions in earnest.

She bites back a noise. She will not moan for him. She steadies her hand, instead, where she’s dribbled ink on the paper. Sansa focuses, she really does. With her jaw grit tightly shut, she returns to her work, copying pertinent passages from the last letter she's received from the Manderlys. The letter itself will go in the fire as soon as the important bits are transcribed; she doubts anyone might look for strategic information in a book of songs and stories belonging to a woman of the North. Her hand shakes, though, fingers cramping around her quill, as Petyr stays there in place.

His mouth does not leave her once. He alternates in his ministrations, probing her entrance, swiping, sucking, long broad strokes with the flat of his tongue. But he does not leave. He's endlessly attentive, penitent, and when she chances a glance downward, his eyes flick up to hers.

She thinks she could have him like this anywhere — in the middle of the grand hall, out in the stable, in the courtyard, in the highest tower. She could spread her legs at the dinner table and have him between them in a moment's notice, in front of whomever she liked, such is her power over him. Petyr's focus is intense, and even though he is not so skilled yet at the graceful small flourishes that come with this position, the enthusiasm with which he applies himself is admirable, that of a younger man. Sansa covers her mouth with her fist, holding back a gasp; he flicks his tongue over her most sensitive place, again and again, and she can't hold back much longer. He sends her toppling over the edge with an aborted little groan, all sparks and honey and lavender and bliss, thinking about his eagerness, his yearning, his neglected cock in his breeches, undoubtedly straining against the fastenings —

Petyr doesn't let up or pull away. It's almost too much, but errs just on the right side of overstimulation. Sansa screws up her eyes and feels her hips bucking up from the chair, grapples at the hem of her gown to keep it from falling. Petyr, still, does not stop. He closes his mouth back over her cunt and sucks, mouth hot and wet and his slick swollen lips a contrast to the prickle of his beard.

He does something else with his tongue, now, something unusual, a little lower than before, and Sansa wails, her transcribing long forgotten. She lets him wring another climax out of her, her cunt soaking and easy with orgasm as she finally gentles him away, and as he looks up at her, his lips and chin are soaked — all hers. She waits, expectant, for him to speak, but instead he only licks his lips and takes a deep heaving breath.

"Very good," Sansa forces herself to say, her voice coming out low and languid and barely recognizable as her own. "That was very good. Clever husband."

Petyr smirks, despite his position. "I am, as ever, yours to command."

"Seven blessings," Sansa can't help saying dryly as she stands on shaking legs from the chair. "If I uncuff you, will you take off your clothes?"

Petyr nods, and she does, unbuckling first the right and then the left. She does not move to put them away, though; her eyes flit to the bed and the ornate carvings in the headboard. There's a place, here, where she might be able to hook the chain. She rather likes the idea. She tosses them to the mattress and sits waiting, expectantly, as Petyr removes first his doublet and undershirt, then his boots and breeches.

"You look well," Sansa says, looking him over appreciatively. This body that she once feared and distrusted has grown on her, all things considered: the scar snaking up his chest, faded with age; the sparse dusting of hair on his chest; the way he’s both narrow and solid at once. She turns her back to him, and adds, “Unlace my gown.”

He attends to her quickly, nimble fingers undoing the stays, and he helps slide the thick winter wool down over her shoulders, leaving her in her pale grey shift.

She thinks about destroying him, in all different forms of permanency.

She thinks about contracts, and forms of fulfillment; how no matter how long she makes him crawl for her, he’ll never repay his debt. And he’d do it happily, grovel for the privilege, throw himself prostrate at her feet and kiss her boots and beg for an ankle.

Her shift lands at her feet, and she watches his eyes rake over her frame, her face growing stony as she feels the heaviness of his gaze.

“Don’t look at me,” she says, “I didn’t tell you to look at me,” and Petyr snaps to attention, gaze landing at her feet. She steps closer, and closer still, crowding into his space on the bed, and he keeps his eyes cast down in rapt obedience. She’s practically hovering over his lap when she reaches out and directs his eyeline back up with two fingers to his chin.

His eyes flick back up to meet hers, and something comes over her then. She runs her fingers down his chin, over the rough grain of his skin, against his stubble, and down to his neck where his pulse beats like a rabbit just beneath his jaw. Feels it, there, with two fingers, the rasp of life in his scrabbling veins, and with the rest of her hand splayed wide she wraps it around his throat.

Panic springs to his eyes, but she does not take her hand away, just rests it there, holding him steady. His pulse speeds up. For good reason, she thinks.

Slowly, just once, for emphasis: she squeezes.

Winterfell ought to have an heir, but it is no longer her duty to provide one. She needn’t fuck him if she does not desire, and indeed, she rarely desires it. Their child, anyway, what would it be heir to? Not the Vale, while Robin Arryn still lives. Harrenhal — she’d rather jump naked off the highest tower than produce an heir to a burnt-out homestead like Harrenhal. She wed him for the men, to turn the Vale’s allegiance to one of legal duty rather than condition, but one cannot inherit an army in such plain terms. There’s no rush, then, which suits her just fine. She can hold out as often as she likes; needs not submit herself to him if she chooses.

Tonight, though, she thinks she might like it.

Her hand splayed wide on his slim throat, she presses him down onto the bed, onto his back. Releases him, and allows him to arrange himself, catlike, on his back. She takes a glance at his cock: hard and heavy, straining upright against his belly. It’s slim, like him, and not intimidating. Another minor blessing, in the grand scheme of things. Looks like it aches. She doesn’t know when she came around to enjoying this.

“Your hands,” she says, and Petyr blinks, looking confused, but offers them again. “No, above your head,” she clarifies, and he nods.

“They’re yours. Do with them what you wish.” He smirks again, looking upward at her as he reaches above his head and she picks up the cuffs.

“They’re beautiful things, aren’t they?” Sansa comments idly as she fastens the right around his wrist again. Traces the wolf’s head with one delicate finger, tightens the buckle. His hands, delicate as they are, are twitching very slightly in apparent anticipation. “I did have them made just for you. I embroidered the direwolf myself. Something pretty for you, my greedy magpie.”

Petyr’s breath hitches as she climbs atop the bed, straddles his chest, still very damp between her legs. She knows he can feel her, how wet she is, and he closes his eyes, brow furrowed as she weaves the chain of the cuffs through the headboard and then fastens the cuff around his free left hand. When he finally speaks, his voice is rough with want and shadow.

“You flatter me, Sansa,” he murmurs, and flexes his arms, testing his wrists. The cuffs hold, as they should. “I wear them with pride.”

He looks back up at her, somehow both haughty and humbled at once, all naked want and desire, and he licks his lips, and she can’t hold back any more; she slides back down his body and ducks down to capture his lips in a hard kiss. Petyr quiets at this, like it goes straight to his head. He kisses back, but it’s soft, tender, no expectation or hidden meaning. She rather likes him like this, vulnerable on his back with no control.

Sansa kisses her way down his neck, kisses the place where his neck meets his shoulder. She drags her teeth over his flesh, parallel along his collarbone, and he sucks in a breath. “Yes,” he whispers, “like that,” and she nips him a little harder. Petyr jerks, but he shuts up, seemingly chastened. So she bites him harder, and this will probably leave a mark, a tender half-moon under his doublet. It might bruise, might even last for days, and he’ll feel her every time his undershirt rubs the skin there. Good. Let him feel her. The little thrill of excitement that pulses through her at that is enough to carry her further down, following the map of his scar down his chest, leaving bitten circles in her wake.

She eyes his cock with vague interest as she nears it. She likes this, drawing it out, making him wait for whatever she chooses to grant him. Tonight, she thinks, she'll give him more than usual.

She says as much, stretching out her arms lazily, sitting up to straddle his lap. "Don't move," she tells him, and he doesn't. She does not take him inside her just yet, only grinds her wet center over his shaft, watching him draw ragged breaths, all the muscles in his core flexed and engaged as he tries, desperately, not to move. Fascinating to watch, she thinks idly, grinding down against his shaft and looking at his bottom lip, how he's biting it from red to white to red again as he struggles to remain still.

"What do you want?" she asks, struggling to keep her own voice impassive. She aches to be filled, to use him, but hearing him beg has become a pleasant activity in itself. Grinds against him, then lifts her hips, hovering over his hips as she reaches behind herself and takes hold of his base.

"Mother of mercy," he says, his voice cracking. "Sansa. Please."

"No, I know what you want," she says decisively. Stony. She slides her hand up and down his shaft a couple times, positioning him just above the heat of her core. She's so wet from this, from seeing him laid out at her mercy, that she's certain he can feel it — his hips buck up, involuntary, and even as he quickly stills himself, she gasps. She felt him, she knows he felt her too.

"Please," Petyr says again. Frustrated and broken, wrists tugging hopelessly at his bindings, no more slack left in the chain. "I've done all you ask. Grant me release."

"Release? Is that all?" She frowns, even as she pushes back ever so slightly, brushing feather-light against his head. She watches him screw up his face, eyes sliding shut and snapping open again as she pulls away. "What about _my_ release?"

"Of course." He speaks quickly, turns it around. "Let me please you. My body is yours."

"In whichever way I choose," Sansa says quietly.

He pauses, and swallows, and nods. "Yes. Please."

She squeezes the base of his cock once more. "Hold still," she says, and as his body goes taut once again, she slowly - excruciating slowness, all the better to make him shiver — presses back upon him, until he is seated entirely inside her, his face a picture of ecstatic agony, whispering something she can't quite make out.

Sansa grips his shoulders, squeezing down with her nails. "What?"

"You," he says, his voice wrecked, "you're a vision, _fuck_ , Sansa —"

"Yes. Don't stop speaking." She sits up, and grinds down again, and he gasps. Sitting up to her full height, she runs her hands down his chest, traces the line of brushing bites she left there, and then takes hold of his hips and begins to move in earnest.

He doesn't stop, for his credit. He rambles, soft and reverent, his voice so low in his throat he's practically swallowing the words. She hears snippets, half sentences, more collisions of words than anything else: her name, mixed with pretty words and filth.

The cuffs are taut. His eyes are fixed on her body, her breasts, her stomach. She clenches around him as she fucks him, hard and unrelenting, slamming down upon his pubic bone with each one. Her climax hits her sideways, unexpected, and she gasps, and tumbles forward to land on his chest, her face just inches above his, lips coming together in another sloppy kiss as she finishes.

On instinct, on whimsy, she reaches up and takes hold of his throat again. "You liked that," she says, accusing, and he nods rapidly. "Go ahead. Fuck me, and perhaps I'll let you breathe when you're done."

She doesn't squeeze down hard, doesn't quite know her own strength, in truth. But Petyr doesn't seem to care. His hips snap brutally up into her, deciding a much quicker pace than the one she'd set. She digs her fingers a little deeper into the sides of his throat. Total control: no longer an illusion. She can't pretend to dislike this at all, his very life at her fingertips, him trusting her to be merciful —

His pace quickens, and she matches him, squeezes a little tighter, using all of her hand. Releases long enough for him to draw a choked breath, then engages again, and his eyes are begging as he fucks her harder. "Can you come?" she hisses, and he nods, rapid and desperate, and she smirks.

"Then come for me," she mutters, and squeezes his throat with her whole hand as his hips stutter, hard, and he pulses and comes inside her.

She takes a breath. She lets go of his throat, clenches his softening cock with her core, milking every drop out of him as he draws in heaving breaths, flat on the bed. Sansa delicately lifts herself off his body, crawls up the bed to unfasten the cuffs once more. She presses a kiss to each wrist and smiles.

"Thank you," Petyr murmurs, voice barely a rasp. She looks with curiosity at the marks on his neck. They may bruise, as well, and he'll wear his highest cloak and pretend to have gotten into a skirmish with a stranger in a tavern on his way back from the Riverlands. She knows him.

"I suppose you should sleep," she says, instead of answering.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Lana Del Rey's "Art Deco."


End file.
